biting words like a wolf howling
by Hawthornes
Summary: She knows they're going to be okay because they have to be. Allison doesn't know who she is without Isaac anymore, and she doesn't ever want to have to figure it out. He's a part of her now— etched into her mind, her heart, her soul; molded into the very essence of her. There is no Allison Argent without Isaac Lahey— not anymore.


"You shouldn't be going out there tonight." Her father's voice catches her attention, and she turns her head to see him standing in the doorway. Much like herself, he's already completely dressed in his gear, ready to head into battle.

She raises her crossbow, inspecting it to make sure nothing's wrong before she responds. "You can't stop me," she states, defiant and stubborn as ever. Setting the crossbow back down, she picks up her dagger before tucking it in her belt.

She doesn't miss the look her father sends Isaac who's lounging on her desk chair, legs spread out in front of him, but she chooses to ignore it in hopes that Isaac would be on her side. As it turns out, he's not. "Stay here, Allison. Stay with Lydia. For once in your life— stay _safe_. I need to be at the top of my game, and I can't be if I'm worried about you every second."

Allison's head snaps over and she glares at him. _If looks could kill… _"I can take care of myself," she sneers, her upper lip curling in a snarl as she huffs and looks away from him. He reaches out to grab her hand, but she jerks her arm away, crossing them over her chest. Her eyes dart between Isaac and her father, as if daring either of them to continue.

Neither of them do.

Sighing, her father nods. "I'll leave you two, then. An hour." He shoots Isaac a warning glance, but he shuts the door behind him— something that he definitely wouldn't normally do. It only adds to the worry spinning in the pit of Allison's stomach.

Isaac waits until the older male's footsteps have disappeared down the hall before he stands. Coming up behind the huntress, he slips his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. She's still annoyed with him, but that all seems to quickly fade away when he places soft kisses on her shoulder.

She lets out a groan when his blunt teeth graze the skin on her neck. "We have things we should be doing."

"The only thing I should be doing right now is you." He's brought his lips up so that they brush against her ear as he speaks, and it sends shivers down her spine that make her bite down on the corner of her mouth.

Before he completely strips her of her common sense in the ways only he knows how to, she disengages herself from his arms and turns around to face him. His eyes linger on her lips, and it's almost enough to make her say _screw it _and kiss him like she'll never kiss him again, but it's not quite there. Her hands plant themselves on her hips to let him know she's serious.

Cocking his head to the side, he brings his hand up to curl under her jaw. His thumb traces her bottom lip, and he grins. "You know, when you get that serious look on your face, your chin juts out like you're pouting. It's _adorable,_" he drawls, his voice low, inviting. But she knows what he's doing, he's done it a million times. She's not gonna fall for it.

"Stop that right now," she orders, but makes no move to pull away from him.

"What?" He questions, his head dipping down so that their lips are practically touching. She can feel his breath on her mouth and it drives her _crazy _just knowing he's that close to her. "Am I not allowed to want my girlfriend?"

_Girlfriend. _Her heart skips a beat when the word rolls off his tongue, and by the smirk he wears, he's noticed.

It's taken them so long—too long—to come to this point, to openly admitting they're a _thing, _so whenever it's spoken aloud a rush of heat turns her cheeks a rosy colour. After a whole year of ignoring each other and ignoring the feelings that were between them, it still feels good to be able to say it, to be able to let one another know they feel it.

For the longest time, both of them denied any emotions between them. They worked well together, sure— they were a pretty badass team, but they swore that was all. Until the realization that maybe there was something both of them were afraid to face stumbled upon them. That's when things began rolling into motion. Slowly, but surely.

There were a few kisses here and there— kisses that developed into something _more _until innocent touches through clothing became lustful grabs at bare skin, until lips ventured places _other _than lips, and content sighs turned into pleasured moans.

That complicated things because they wanted—_needed—_more than secret rendezvous under the cover of nightfall and hidden away from prying eyes and ears. Neither of them wanted to hurt Scott, though. So they kept going home after seeing each other and scrubbed at their skin in the shower until it was red and raw to take the scent, the guilt, of one another away.

But Beacon Hills is a small town and secrets don't stay secret for long because one afternoon after lacrosse practice, Stiles of all people caught them kissing behind the bleachers. Isaac's witty remark was that they needed to find a better hiding place, and that earned him an elbow in the ribs from the brunette.

In the end, the last step of admitting to everyone else wasn't as bad as she had originally thought it would be. The new, strange passiveness that overtook Isaac after, though— that wasn't all that great. But she couldn't help but think it cute when he would tuck his arm around her shoulders.

"Not right now," she says with a shrug, taking a step away from him. "We're about to go into battle, remember?"

He looks at her for a long moment, reading her face with an expression that's dark and hooded. Reaching out, he grabs her hand, fitting his fingers in the spaces between hers. It's an innocent gesture, but it makes her heart flutter in her chest like a bird trying to break free from its cage. They let out a sigh at the same time.

She thinks she knows what he's about to say, and her bones suddenly feel heavy with the desperateness that leaks into them like wet sand. She's not sure how she's still standing, but there's no doubt that he has something to do with it.

"Y'know, it's not gonna be pretty out there. And we—one of us, both of us, I dunno—we might not make it back. I just want—"

It's a sentence that she doesn't want him to finish, _can't _hear, so she cuts off the flow of words by closing the space between them that she created and pressing her lips to his. The kiss is slow, desperate— but not desperate in the way it's usually desperate. It's a pitiful desperateness from the heavy weight of what could possibly happen.

He's the one who pulls away first, resting his forehead on his. "I love you."

"Don't say it like that," she says, her voice cracking with the overwhelming emotions that run ramped through her petite frame. Meeting his eyes, she can only look at him for a second before having to blink back the tears.

"Like what?"

"Like you're saying goodbye. It's— it's not goodbye, Isaac. I _know _it's not. We're gonna be around to annoy each other for a long time after tonight." She's crying by now, and the tone in her voice is almost begging, but she can't find it in her to care. She _knows _that they're both gonna be okay. Knows it better than she knows anything.

She knows they're going to be okay because they _have _to be. Allison doesn't know who she is without Isaac anymore, and she doesn't ever want to have to figure it out. He's a part of her now— etched into her mind, her heart, her soul; molded into the very essence of her. There is no Allison Argent without Isaac Lahey— not anymore.

She tries for the briefest of seconds to picture a world without him in it, and finds out that it's so dark and empty it _terrifies _her. No light, no happiness— just a simple, nagging loneliness that'll eat away at her insides until there's nothing left except a broken, hallow shell of who she once was. She won't let that happen. She wants to breathe; there's no breath without him.

"Course we are," he agrees, dragging the tip of his nose across her cheek. "The two of us? Survivors." She wishes that she can say that she knows he believes his words. But there's a lost hopelessness behind his voice, swirling in the depths of blue hues, and she knows that he doesn't truly think both of them will make it out alive.

But she clings to the non-hope he offers her, nodding. "I love you, too. Always will." She raises up on the tips of her toes to catch his lips again. The kiss is short, and she's not sure if she's tasting her own tears, or his.

The latter is to frightening for her to think about, so she pulls away to wipe at her eyes.

They spend their remaining hour doing a lot of nothing, actually. Allison fiddles with her weapons while Isaac watches her. Conversations are few and far between— it's like the air around them is too thick to talk, too heavy to breathe, let alone speak. She doesn't mind the silence, though. As long as it's with him, it's good.

Even though both of their minds are circling around the possibly impending doom. Allison tries to push it to the back of her mind as best she can, busy herself with anything and everything— but the way Isaac's watching her every muscle move, listening to every breath and beat of her heart, she knows he's trying to commit it all to memory. _Just in case. _

But it's okay— they're both going to be okay. Later she plans on making fun of him for worrying so much.

Derek's loft is in worse spirits than her bedroom was. The first thing that happens when she walks through the door is Stiles throwing his arms around her. Completely out of the ordinary, but she hugs him back for what seems like forever before he's holding her so tightly that breath is hard to come by.

"Stiles— too tight," she gasps out, and he immediately lets go.

"Sorry. Just wanted to give one of my favourite girls a spine-crushing hug." He shoves his hands into his pockets, nodding at Isaac who's standing behind Allison. Her father's already taken off, talking to Derek.

"Speaking of," she says, cocking her head at him. "How _did_ you manage to get Lydia to stay out of all of this?"

His shoulders rise and fall in a lazy shrug. "I kind of... locked her in her bedroom. So unless she's gonna crawl out of the window, scale the side of the building, and do so without hurting herself— I doubt she's gonna be making an appearance." One of his hands come out of his pockets and he reaches around to rub the back of his neck.

Isaac hits the palm of his hand against his forehead. "—Dammit. Why didn't _I _think of that? We could've locked Lydia and Allison together in Allison's room. She's on the top floor of an apartment building. It would've been the perfect plan."

The brunette elbows him in the ribs lightly.

"Next time I'll make sure to let you know my plans of keeping Lydia away. We can coordinate."

He spreads his fingers out to the air in front of him. "'s all I ask, really." Smirking down at Allison, he slings his arm around her shoulders only to have her knock it off in the next second, stepping away from him and out of his reach.

She leaves him and Stiles snickering behind her, and though she may be annoyed, a smile works its way onto her lips. Because they're laughing, smiling, generally feeling less horrible than ten seconds ago, and she's glad for that— even if it is at her expense. She'll let them poke fun at her as much as they want for the little time left because they need it.

Making her way over to Scott, she wraps her arms around his neck without saying a word. Neither of them have to anymore. They're not together, but he still loves her, and she still loves him. It's just in a different way for both of them now. Doesn't mean they care about each other any less because they never will.

They'll always be each other's first love, and that'll always mean something.

She pulls away to look at him. He's worried, tired, warn. It's scarred into his features at this point, and she wishes that she could wave her hand and make it all go away. He deserves better than this— he deserves a break, a very long vacation. She doubts if he'll get one anytime soon, though, and it makes her frown.

"Holding up okay?" She asks.

He shrugs, but then nods. A tight smile fits his lips, but doesn't reach his eyes. "Okay, I guess. Despite everything. How're you, though?" After he asks, his eyes flicker over her shoulder to Isaac who's still standing with Stiles. "How's Isaac?"

Allison's lips draw in a pursed frown, and she lets out a long sigh. "Oh, y'know. He's all gloom and doom, we're gonna die, yadda, yadda, yadda. Nothing out of the ordinary there." She had meant for it to come across jokingly, light, but it sounds as hopeless as she feels. "But, besides Mister Grumpy Wolf, I'm doing okay too."

There's a pause, and Scott moves to wrap his arms around her again. "We're gonna be okay," he says, and she buries her face in his shoulder to keep from crying out. And they stay wrapped in each other's embrace for a few long moments before she pulls away, wiping at her eyes to get rid of any evidence that she'd been crying. He smiles at her.

"Hey." Scott says in greeting, nodding his head.

Allison looks at Isaac who's come up beside her. He rests his arm around her waist, and she leans against him, placing a hand on his stomach. Lips ghosting over her hair, he presses a kiss to the top of her head before turning his attention back to Scott. "You ready for this?" He asks.

"Do we have a choice?"

She can feel the heat of both their gazes resting upon her, but she chooses not to acknowledge it.

Because there's nothing anyone can do to convince her to stay behind. She's a part of this, and she'll see it through to the very end. Allison can't just sit back while she knows the people she loves most in the world are out there fighting. She's no martyr, no saint— but she knows right from wrong, knows what she has to do.

_She's a warrior. Fighting is in her blood, burning through her veins. _

Derek and her father take charge of expelling the plan. As they stand there, listening, she can't help but think of what a rag-tag group of soldiers they make. Broken teenagers— fragile teenagers mixed in with tired werewolves. Misfits that don't fit in anywhere else but here with each other for some reason.

Scott tries again and again to convince Stiles to stay behind, and Isaac makes a comment that they should've locked all _three _of the humans in a room to keep them safe. It earns him another elbow in his ribs from Allison. Derek says something about needing all the help they can get, and after that, no one else says anything about anyone staying behind.

"Boyd, Chris, and I will be first line. We'll charge in while Scott, Stiles, and Isaac sneak in back. Allison'll come down from above— try not to let them see you." Derek's eyes meet hers for a fraction of a second, and he's about to say something before Isaac cuts him off.

"Are you sure she should go alone?"

"We need you on the ground. She'll be fine."

After Derek finishes speaking and everyone is busy with last-minute preparations, Isaac pulls Allison off to the side. Before her lips can form words, he's kissing her. His arms envelop her, and it's as if they're the only two people in the room. The kiss doesn't last long, but, fueled by the disconsolateness of the situation, it's heated.

When he pulls away, he reaches to grab her hand. Lips forming a thin, white line, blue hues flood with worry. "You're shaking," he points out. He's taken both her hands now, holding them a little too tightly in his. "I love you, Allison. So I'm really hoping you'll forgive me for this…" His voice trails off, and she looks at him questioningly.

A hand closes over her mouth, a cloth held over her lips and nose. When she inhales, it's a sticky sweet, chemical smell and it takes her a moment to process what's happening. But she does, and she begins struggling against Isaac who has her arms, and the person behind her who still has the cloth over her mouth.

The struggling doesn't last long because the fight slowly goes out of her as her vision blurs and the room tilts. The last thing she sees is Isaac's face as he's lowering her to the ground, resting her head gently on the floor. His mouth moves as if he's speaking to her, but she can't hear anything. And then the world goes dark.

She wakes up with a groan, a pounding in her skull. It takes her a moment to remember earlier events, but when she sees Stiles still passed out on the floor next to her, it all comes rushing back. Allison pushes herself into a sitting position despite her body protesting, and she scoots closer to Stiles so she can shake him awake.

"C'mon— Stiles! Get up. We have to— we have to go, Stiles." Her hand crashing against his cheek is what finally wakes him, and he cusses under his breath as he looks up at her. "Get up! We have to go."

He blinks, reaching up to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Did they _drug _us?"

She doesn't bother answering the obvious question, instead standing and pulling him up with her. She's still dizzy, a little tipsy on her feet, but she can already feel it passing. Glancing around the loft, she makes her way over to the door, and lets out a long, relieved breath when she finds the door not locked from the outside to keep them in.

They must've estimated that they'd be out longer than that.

Allison wonders when they planned this— if it was a sudden, last minute thing, or if they'd been planning it for a while if all else failed and they couldn't get Stiles and Allison to agree to willingly stay behind. It makes her angry, and she's going to have a few choice words with Isaac when this is all said and done.

But right now all she needs to do is get there. Her and Stiles have already crossed the parking lot and loaded into his jeep. Her hands are shaking, but it's not with fear this time, she knows. No, this is something different. Anger, rage, defiance.

She's not sure if she's angrier at them or at herself for not noticing it. Thinking back now, she notices the small glances between Isaac and her father, the way both of them and Scott would speak in hushed tones at times. She mentally slaps herself for being so naive, so blind and vulnerable and hidden from the secrets they were keeping.

She's jarred from her thoughts when Stiles abruptly slams on the breaks, nearly sending her through the windshield. "What the Hell, Stilinski? Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Allison. I don't suppose if I asked you to close your eyes and stay in the car, you would?" There's a lost quality to his voice, and when she looks over at him, his face is nearly sheet-white. Her stomach sinks into her toes at the sight of it, and her whole body goes stiff and cold as she, very slowly, follows his line of sight out of the window.

Her first thought is that something happened to her father, and then she thinks maybe Scott. Nothing could've prepared her for what her eyes would land upon and when she sees it—

She can't get out of the jeep fast enough.

Her hands stumbled over the handle— she's shaking so bad that she can barely get it open. But she does, and she throws herself from the vehicle, already sobbing, already completely lost to hysterics because of the sight she can't tear her eyes from. Allison only makes it a few steps before Scott's in front of her, holding her back.

That's when she screams, beating on his shoulders and trying to jerk herself from his grip. "Scott, let me go! Let me go!" The continuous smashing of her fists against his chest and arms is almost enough to make him let go, but it's not quite enough. "_Isaac! ISAAC!" _Her lips pill his name in a frenzy, but he's not responding.

He's not responding because he's nothing more than a bloodied corpse in Derek's arms.

"Please, Scott— please no." After the words are spoken, he knees give out from under her. Scott manages to hold her up for a few long moments before both of them are lowered onto the ground. His grip on her doesn't falter, doesn't weaken even though she's stopped struggling now. Her head rests on his shoulder, and the sobs shake her body violently.

The pain isn't like any she's faced before. It's physical— she can feel her bones fracturing, she can feel cracks forming and her skin, and her muscles stretching themselves until they snap like the string of a bow. She can feel her organs shutting down. She can feel her heart breaking, shattering, and it doesn't stop. It happens over and over and over.

But it's more than physical. It's emotional, mental. It's as if every part of her—her heart, her mind, her body, her soul—all the way down to her very _essence _is ripping apart. And it's because he's being ripped _out _of her. Every part of her that he touched, effected, was now withering and cracking and breaking because he took it with him.

She finds herself wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her whole right then and there. But it doesn't. And though she keeps wishing it over the next few days, it still doesn't.

She doesn't leave her bed much, doesn't sleep or eat or speak.

She can't close her eyes because every time she does, she loses him all over again. And she can't keep her eyes open because the reality she's living in doesn't include him. Allison hasn't been able to figure out which one is worse, yet, but she thinks that the latter is because, in the nightmares, at least he's there. Even if it is for the briefest of seconds.

"Hey."

Her eyes flicker toward the door to see Lydia enter. She's carrying food, and Allison's stomach churns uncomfortably just at the sight of it. She hasn't been able to keep anything down— hasn't been interested in eating, anyway.

"You look horrible, by the way. When was the last time you showered?" The redhead sets the plate on the bed in front of her before perching herself on the edge, looking at her friend with a concerned expression.

"This morning."

She sighs. "Then it's because you haven't been outside, and you haven't eaten or left this bed much. Your eyes are red and puffy, your hair is tangled so much you may have to cut it all off, you're pale and exhausted, and you look…" Her voice trails off, eyes searching her friends face in search of the right word. "Hallow."

"I am."

That's what it feels like. It feels like someone carved out her insides, leaving nothing but a shell of the girl she once was.

When her mom died, she was so focused on anger, on hate, on revenge, that she didn't feel much of the pain at all. She moved through the worst part of it in a blur of seething rage. She can't do that now— she can't be that angry. There's not enough left of her to feel anything except a crippling pain that paralyzes her.

Breathing takes all of the energy she has, and each second all she's doing is trying not to die.


End file.
